


The Mystery of John Watson

by akaya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, it's a wip, there is going to be some chemistry too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaya/pseuds/akaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DI Lestrade considered himself an intelligent, and fairly insightful man. Of course, he was very well aware that he was nowhere near Sherlock Holmes' level, but was mostly glad about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

DI Lestrade considered himself an intelligent, and fairly insightful man. Of course, he was very well aware that he was nowhere near Sherlock Holmes' level, but was mostly glad about it.

He respected the man, of course, but it was hard for him to even start comprehending of what exactly was happening in the middle of Sherlock's brain. On his better day, when Lestrade was feeling particularly well rested and his body was still processing the first cup of coffee – black, no sugar – he'd sometimes indulge himself and imagine countless rail-tracks somehow fitting snugly inside Sherlock Holmes' head, with trains whizzing cheerfully with loads of information, never stopping.

It was for this reason, Lestrade had decided, that Sherlock would always be alone. There was no time for anyone to even think about getting on board on one of those trains.

It made him sad, but Lestrade knew that his sentiment wouldn't be appreciated if he voiced it.

Then John Watson happened.

Which wouldn't be that shocking in itself, if not for the fact that John Watson happened and Sherlock simply took him in a stride, without even stopping or slowing down for a minute. So basically, one minute there was Sherlock being his usual, rude and brilliant self, and a moment later there was also this calm, collected, and seemingly harmless man.

A Doctor, Sherlock introduced the man curtly, and went about his business with a dead body on the floor. As if it was an everyday occurrence for him to bring someone into a crime scene, as if it was what normal people did. It would be a lie to say that Lestrade took it all in a stride, but he accepted it, deeming it as just another one of Sherlock's weird experiments. Whatever it was, Lestrade didn't want to know.

But then it happened again, and again, and again, and it was hard to ignore the bizarreness of the situation, pulled straight from some bad telly.

It was also hard for the DI to pretend that John Watson was just a nice chap, who only happened to live with one highly functioning sociopath and accidentally has nothing better to do with his time other than following him around, knowing fully well that there will be danger and dead bodies.

 _No_ , Lestrade thought in all his seriousness. _He has to evaluate his opinion and known facts about Doctor John Watson._

He couldn't just straight out stare at the man, because, without a doubt, Sherlock would notice, and it would raise some questions he did not even want to think about answering. He respected Sherlock, liked him even, but he'd rather not be subjected to his sharp assessment. There was something gut-wrenchingly unnerving to have those pale, alien-like eyes fully focused on him.

Except, it seemed like it had no effect whatsoever on John Watson. Whereas normal people would flinch away or blink rapidly, visibly distressed, the good Doctor would simply smile or roll his eyes and comment on something highly inappropriate - Lestrade had seen both of them giggling, while standing over a dead body, he didn't comment or asked about it - making Sherlock's mouth quirk in something that could as well be considered a fond smile.

This, and the lack of personal space between the good Doctor and – self proclaimed - Consulting Detective, made him seriously consider the probability of them being in a romantic relationship, but he quickly dismissed the thought as too preposterous and highly improbable.

But then again, Sherlock did not do friends.

 _It's too pedestrian for him to engage in such pointless social activities_ , he said.

 _Yet here you are_ , thought Lestrade, eyes on the unusual pair, their heads bowed together, discussing something heatedly. John's arms crossed over his chest, so different from Sherlock's long limbs, flailing wildly to illustrate a point. _With the good Doctor. Why?_

It was certainly a thing, he'd like to know.


	2. Chapter 2

Yes, Lestrade hadn't acquired the DI title only because he was good with people and did his paperwork without much grumbling – even thought he loathed it with all his heart, but then again, most of the officers did. He got it because he had proven himself to own the right package of skills required for the job, and that did include being able to notice seemingly unimportant details and subtle nuances between people he worked with.

And just now he noticed the kind of shift in the atmosphere, he did not want to deal with at a crime scene. Looking around, he quickly spotted the problem.

John Watson.

Average person would think it logical to look at Sherlock Holmes first, seeing as the man didn't even bother hiding his vehement dislike towards Anderson, and was currently quarrelling with the man in question, loudly.

 _But that's not it_ , thought Lestrade with an overcoming sense of dread. Anderson's and Sherlock's face-offs weren't new or even remotely dangerous. For all their bickering, the DI found it doubtful that they would even touch each other, unless it would be for an autopsy of one another. That would probably feel like early Christmas for either one of them.

No, they weren't the ones causing the shift, and Lestrade found himself focusing intently on the Doctor. John wasn't doing anything odd, but there was something not quite right about how he kept himself, rubbing idly at his right shoulder, and staring at the dead body in front of him.

“Of course the cause of dead was the bullet to the head, it's right there!” Anderson almost shouted, glaring at Sherlock, who grimaced ugly as if smelling something foul.

“I know it's too much to ask of someone like you, Anderson,” the Detective spat. “But even you should be able to distinguish poisoning from shooting!”

Lestrade ignored them, eyes still set on John. The calm, almost serene expression on the man's face was unnerving to say the least. It was one thing to be used to seeing the dead like Lestrade himself was – it came with the job – and completely different to be so peaceful about it. He'd seen people in shock, and that definitely wasn't it.

He also wasn't blind. He knew what a bulge made by a gun hidden under a military style jacket looked like when he saw it. Doctor Watson was armed. On a crime scene. And standing over a body with a bullet hole in its forehead.

It made Lestrade's skin crawl; his hand, as if on impulse, went to the gun holster. The feel of it under his palm calmed his suddenly galloping nerves. He stood there, observing.

 _A rookie mistake_ , he inwardly cursed himself. Allowing John to enter a crime scene omitting the customary patting down, without giving it a second thought. It was highly unprofessional, and now the whole investigation could be in jeopardy, because Lestrade had been foolish enough to actually trust Sherlock and his acquittance.

 _I know nothing of this man_ , Lestrade realized, and felt a cold shiver travel down his spine. If someone told him an hour ago that John Watson even owned a gun, he would've snorted and called it a ridiculous notion. He knew that the good Doctor was an ex-military, but the man gave away no traces of PTSD or any kind of violent behaviour whatsoever. Not to mention, it was an order of the law to return all kinds of firearms at the end of one's time in the army.

 _Sherlock_ , thought Lestrade. It was Sherlock that people would usually consider a killer-material. It was an obvious choice with the kind of attitude the man presented to the world. Sherlock would yell and snarl at people, call them idiots, ignore them, and sometimes – if he felt like acting – manipulating them in a way that was often quite scandalous.

John was always nice, with his calm, warm smile and sweaters in neutral colours, making him seem more like a nice, mellow chap that you'd want to go to a pub and have a pint. Even when annoyed, or flat out angry – usually with Sherlock - he'd still behave in a way that fit in what society considered a normal behaviour.

 _Was he that great of an actor?_ Lestrade wondered, now out rightly staring at John, as if seeing him for the first time. Maybe he did, and that terrified him a bit. He couldn't bother with subtlety, when the rules of their arrangement had been obviously breached.

“Sherlock,” John's voice sounded loud and sudden in Lestrade's ears, even though the scene was hardly quiet, police officers and the forensic team mulling about. But it all muted into a white noise in the background of Lestrade's brain, and suddenly he felt like his twenty year old self, with no experience in the field. Which was idiotic, giving the circumstances, but also very real.

But he kept his calm.

“Sherlock,” John repeated, using exactly the same tone of voice as before, calm, collected. _But not shy_ , Lestrade noted, knowing that an average person would probably mistake it for one. _John's tone had been commanding_ , confident that there was no need to raise his voice to be heard. It was a tone Lestrade had heard during his short time in the army.

“John?” Sherlock turned to face him, brows furrowing slightly.

John sighed, and motioned vaguely at the body in front of him. “It was was a mercy killing,” he said, and the DI felt his breathing stopping for two full seconds.

But Sherlock only looked down at the body again, ignoring Anderson's sputtering at the idiocy of such suggestion, and Lestrade could tell the exact moment a new idea occurred to the man.

“But of of course!” Sherlock exclaimed, with indecent glee, completely unfit for a crime scene. “John, _John_!” His lips twitched into a grin, but it quickly dissipated upon peering closely at his face. “John?” He repeated again, a question this time, worry lacing his voice.

John sighed, and for a moment one of his palms touched the gun hidden under his leather jacket, just tiniest of touch, but it was enough to make Lestrade's fingers twitch to his own gun for a moment, before letting it hang loosely.

It was enough for Sherlock to see, and Lestrade's throat felt dry, having his full attention without any kind of preamble. He held himself straight, not allowing the man to intimidate him, but the situation was suddenly so much more complex.

Sherlock knew what Lestrade saw.

 **End of Part Two**


	3. Chapter 3

_What now_? Thought Lestrade, feeling a bit sick to the stomach. Sherlock's unnaturally pale eyes were boring into his skull, non-blinking. _Just observing?_ The DI wondered. _Or perhaps - - daring him?_

 _No matter._ Getting intimidated by the Consulting Detective was not something he deemed even remotely acceptable. It was a territory Lestrade wasn't keen to breach. Ever.

“Sherlock!” He bellowed, mostly for show and perhaps to reassure himself that he still was the one calling shots here. Voice steady, at least for now. “A moment.”

Sherlock's mouth curved upwards for a fleeting moment, so short, that Lestrade couldn't be sure if it wasn't his mind simply playing tricks on him. Calm, keep calm, Lestrade thought as Sherlock stepped closer.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock huffed, a note of boredom creeping into his voice – clearly on purpose - as he came to stand in front of the DI. But there was an unmistakeable, if still very subtle, gleam of wariness in the pale eyes. Although very few would be able to notice it.

Lestrade glanced around discretely, making sure no one was listening. His people could do well without knowing just how far his depravity went. "Care to tell me why the good Doctor is carrying?" He asked exasperated. Which, he immediately realized upon seeing Sherlock's reaction, was a crucial mistake on his part.

“Ah,” Sherlock exhaled softly, packing a whole lot of meaning into the sound. It was equally obnoxious as one of his famous monologues would be.

 _The gall of this man_ , Lestrade grimaced, before gritting out, “Sherlock. I could have you arrested,” he paused, and looked meaningfully over Sherlock's shoulder, at John. “Both of you.”

“Yes, yes you could,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, showing all signs of being already awfully bored with their conversation. Clearly not bothered by Lestrade's threat in the slightest. “But you won't.”

 _No. No, he won't_ , and the awareness of how true the offhand statement was, made Lestrade want to kick or shoot something.

Preferably Sherlock.

“Get out of my crime scene,” he said instead, louder. “Now.”

+

The nagging feeling of something being not right with John Watson came back to Lestrade, when the latter was in the shower. Despite it being not the best place to have any kind of epiphanies, the issue could not be ignored any longer.

The odd sensation had been pushed aside during the day, allowing the DI to concentrate on more urgent matters, like digging some information on the victim - hoping to gain some more insight other than Sherlock's deductions - as well as the sudden discovery of an ex-girlfriend, who betrayed all signs of being the mad-stalker type, immediately taken into the questioning.

The case was far from being closed; the victim did not come back to life and the culprit was still somewhere out there, running loose and probably having the time of his – _her perhaps_ , thought Lestrade – life, laughing at the incompetency of the London's Met.

But it all became secondary, the moment Lestrade stepped into his flat, hastily shedding his clothing and heading straight for the shower.

So here he was - indulging in the steady stream of hot, bordering on too hot, water – rubbing at the nasty kink in his neck and thinking about another man. He wondered if perhaps he should be more bothered by it, but disregarded this trail of thought, in favour of remembering all the known facts about the good Doctor.

John Watson wore a mask of a nice, inconspicuous fellow that most people wouldn't think twice about doubting. Disconcerting, but already established fact. The man was not only habituating the same space as Sherlock on daily basis, a huge achievement on its own, but also befriended the man. Befriended Sherlock Holmes.

And didn't move out after the head in the fridge accident – Lestrade was still fairly disturbed by it – or the fake drug bust. No matter that Lestrade had been angry with Sherlock that day, and might have done it on purpose, hoping to actually find something. He never considered himself a saint, and Sherlock could be a handful.

But it didn't seem to even remotely phase Watson. Sure, his surprise had been evident, but it took a moment for him to shrug it off, and continue with his merry praises towards the mad detective. Body parts stuffed between a half empty jam jar and unopened package of Irish butter.

 _Perfectly usual_ , Lestrade thought, tilting his head back and reaching blindly for the shampoo bottle; only to have it knocked down instead. It bounced and rolled in the shallow water, before coming to a stop next to his foot.

He glared at it. Surrounded by mad men, he was slowly becoming one of them.

As a man of duty he was aware of certain sacrifices that had to be made to gain something greater. Stuffing his pride into his pocket, was a small prize to pay for getting more murderers and public offenders put behind the bars. Right where they belonged.

Sherlock's intellect was a great asset and Lestrade was desperate.

Only he wasn't sure how exactly John Watson fit into this equation.

+

A text message, from a restricted number, waited on his beaten blackberry.

 _If needed, I can offer assistance in the matter – MH_ , it said. Lestrade grimaced at the phone, walked over to the nearest window, holding his towel secure, and gave the nearest CCTV camera a pointed glare. His phone vibrated with a new message.

 _The offer still stands – MH_ , it read.

 _Not selling information on Sherlock, period. - GL_

 _Wasn't implied – MH_

“Oh really?” Lestrade mumbled and put his phone away, throwing one last glance at the CCTV camera outside, before stalking to the kitchen, purposely ignoring a stack of reports on his coffee table. He'd need more caffeine in his system to deal with them. Or with Mycroft Holmes.

Lestrade found it easy to stifle the urge to ask what exactly was being offered here, because he'd rather avoid accidentally owing something to this particular man. Mycroft not only kidnapped him on the very first meeting – although it might as well be a code for friendly bonding in the older Holmes' dictionary – but also tried to bribe him to spy on his own brother. It stopped being funny when Lestrade realized it was _not_ a friendly prank played on him by one of his colleagues.

“Minor position in the British Government my ass,” Lestrade snorted and reached for his favourite, slightly chipped from an unfortunate fall, coffee mug. There were only two more meetings with the man, but there was no doubt left that Mycroft Holmes was dangerous; with a politician's smile, perfectly tailored three pieced suit and umbrella.

It did appeal to some areas of Lestrade's brain, words like dapper and thrilling coming to mind when he thought of the man, but -

But he was over forty, and knew better by now.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and critics always appreciated. No beta.


End file.
